


Reach Out

by weathervaanes



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Advice, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - College/University, Angst, Bottom Derek, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Teacher Derek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-09
Updated: 2013-08-09
Packaged: 2017-12-22 21:16:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/918108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weathervaanes/pseuds/weathervaanes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Or, In Which Stiles Falls in Love Twice...With the Same Person</p>
<p>-0-</p>
<p>Stiles sees the flyer on his very last day at Beacon Hills High School.  It’s hanging, unassuming, in the hall near the front entrance along with bulletins and other flyers, advertisements, posters for free student concerts, but the fact that the word “sex” is written in a font two times larger than the rest of the page catches his attention.</p>
<p>It’s an advice hotline for a whole range of things, from teenage angst to how to deal with your parents telling you you’re adopted and a whole mess in the middle.  Stiles thinks it’s funny, though, that they offer advice on sexuality and sex education.  It makes sense on the one hand, since high school sex ed does jack shit for actual learning, but anyone who really wants to know stuff has an infinite source of knowledge right on their phone—the internet.</p>
<p>So it starts off as a joke.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reach Out

**Author's Note:**

> Heads up: be warned there's a moment in this fic where someone is coerced into giving oral sex if that makes you a little uncomfortable.

Stiles sees the flyer on his very last day at Beacon Hills High School.  It’s hanging, unassuming, in the hall near the front entrance along with bulletins and other flyers, advertisements, posters for free student concerts, but the fact that the word “sex” is written in a font two times larger than the rest of the page catches his attention.

It’s an advice hotline for a whole range of things, from teenage angst to how to deal with your parents telling you you’re adopted and a whole mess in the middle.  Stiles thinks it’s funny, though, that they offer advice on sexuality and sex education.  It makes sense on the one hand, since high school sex ed does jack shit for actual learning, but anyone who really wants to know stuff has an infinite source of knowledge right on their phone—the internet.

So it starts off as a joke.

He doesn’t even think about it until three months later when he finds the flyer buried in a box he’s unpacking in his dorm room.  He rolls his eyes at it, laughing at himself for even bothering to tear it off the bulletin board in the first place, but it ends up on his desk and, a few weeks later, in his hand.

He's really got nothing to do and he tells himself that as he dials. _Stiles_ , he tells himself, _you have way too much time on your hands right now._

He bounces his leg as he waits, his knee jerking around like he's got a twitch.

“Reach Out Hotline, how can I help?”

For a moment he totally freaks out, part of him thinks he expected an automated message or some funky waiting music, but he had only waited a couple of rings before a real person answered him sounding professionally chill.

“Uh, hi. Sorry. Uh—”

“It's all right, take your time.”

“No, seriously I was just calling because—I saw your flyer and you guys give sex ed, which I get. I mean, school sex ed sucks but—dude, everyone's got Google right? What's the point? But obviously there's some sort of point I'm missing.”

Stiles doesn’t know what kind of response he’s expecting, but it’s not the one the guy gives.  “You’ve used the internet to look up information on sex, haven’t you?” he asks.

Stiles smirks.  “Uh, yeah.”

“And you found everything you read to be one hundred percent reliable?”

“…that is a terrifyingly good point.”

“And some people don’t know where to go for legitimate information,” he adds, sounding like he’s reading off a pre-written cue card.  “We try to help provide a comfortable way for kids to learn important things without awkward situations.”

“Well, dude, to be completely honest, I can't think of a more awkward situation than talking to a complete stranger about my sex life,” he says, leaning back in his chair and grabbing a stressball to throw around.  “If I had one.”

“Is that what you’re calling about?  Virginity is—”

“Nothing to be ashamed of,” Stiles quotes dutifully.  “Nothing wrong with not getting down in the sheets, nothing wrong with waiting—and I don’t even know what I’m waiting for.”

There’s a pause.  “Would you like to talk about it?”

Stiles sits up straight, the ball bouncing on his forehead once before dropping to the floor, and he blushes, because here he is whining to a complete stranger about his lack of a sex life.  “No, man, there's no crisis. Look, sorry I'm holding up the line for some actual kid in actual trouble.”

“There are plenty of people here to help,” the man says, again as if it’s a routine. But there’s something off about that particular phrase. Like he’s lying.

“Well, I'm glad you're well-staffed but really, I'm good. Sorry to call without an actual problem.”  He licks his lips and grasps for something else to say.  “Well, bye.” He clicks off the call without adding anything else and immediately feels like he made a mistake. Like it's a shame he'll never talk to that guy again, he seemed nice. And smart. And a little sad.

But Stiles doesn’t get a chance to think about it because two seconds after he’s hung up the phone, the door is banging open and a guy wearing a shirt with Harry Potter’s face in it stumbles in with his stuff, grinning.  And Stiles thinks it’s going to be a very interesting year.

 

* * *

 

 

He maybe Googles “Reach Out Hotline California” just to see what the deal is, and if he does it’s because of simple boredom and a slight twinge of curiosity, but nothing else.  They have a website, packed to the gills with local phone numbers and statistics on teen crises and Stiles almost has a sense of warmth spreading in his gut because sometimes it’s just nice to know that good people are out there.  It disappears just as quickly, however, because it was a one-time thing and it was dumb anyway so.

So that’s what he keeps telling himself.

The hotline is also 24-hours which means there's got to be some commitment and backing to the operation. It's just idle curiosity, a survey really, to ask about how their call traffic is at two in the morning when the thoughts are buzzing too loudly in his head to let him sleep and his roommate is at a party.

He feels kind of nervous for no real reason whatsoever, and when a girl picks up the phone he frowns in confusion.  “Who are you?”

“As a general rule we don't give our names to preserve the anonymous atmosphere that keeps callers comfortable, but if it'll help you I can give you my name.”

“No. No, sorry, I don't need you to break your protocols it's just you aren't who I spoke to before.”

“We rotate. It'd be kind of hard to keep someone here for 24-hours. But there's always someone here to talk.  How can I help?”

“I—I don't really need help I was just. I was just—”

“You don't necessarily have to need help. We can just talk or—I can give you some information. On anything you want.”

Stiles feels worse by the minute. These people are obviously trying to do something good and he's only messing around. He feels like a dick.  “How do you get involved with an organization like this?” he asks, scratching at the back of his neck.  “I mean, it seems…  Nice, really nice.”

She hesitates for a moment.  “I used a hotline like this at one time in my life, one for runaways.  And the person I spoke to—well, I felt like I could handle the situation I was faced with a lot better once I’d talked to someone.  And so I wanted to do the same thing.”  He can hear her clicking a pen over the line.  “There are ways to get involved, you know.”

“No, yeah, I know, I just—I’m a college freshman.  So, it probably wouldn’t work out very well for me.  But…”  He swallows tightly.  “Maybe one day.”

“You can send us an email, if you're interested later on.”

“Right. No, yes, of course. I won't hold you up. Do you get a lot of calls this time of night?”

“Just a few. But they're all important.”

“Except this one. I really am sorry. I gotta stop saying that and free up your line.”

“No,” the girl's voice says, almost like she may be smiling.  “Even this one.”

Stiles smiles softly, twisting his face back into his pillow.  When he hangs up a moment later after thanking her, he feels some kind of…comfortable content glow in his chest, and, huh, maybe that’s why people use hotlines after all.

 

* * *

 

 

It’s understandable, Stiles knows, for people to feel lost at college.  It’s a big campus, a bunch of people that Stiles will never get to meet, but he’s made a lot of friends and he’s comfortable with them and so that—that makes him feel confident.  But then there’s the fact that even though he wasn’t exactly a stud in Beacon Hills, he’s apparently prime meat on campus.

He’s struck with the full awareness of his lack of experience one night with his roommate, Gavin, while they’re at a party.  Stiles, slightly tipsy and leaning against a wall while he watches people dance, has been on the receiving end of some serious heavy glances from a girl in the doorway to the kitchen.  She’s leggy and raven-haired, gorgeous, and Stiles thinks he recognizes her from Intro to Psych.  Gavin elbows him.

“Wear a condom,” he teases.

He gets back to the room that night and Gavin doesn't and he feels great because he got to kiss a girl and she put his hand on her boob and that was fucking awesome, but he keeps waiting for something and - well nothing is happening. He doesn't over-think it this time when he calls.  The person who answers is the first guy he talked to and somehow that helps him just get right into it.

“So I feel incredibly pathetic but my roommate isn't here and I get the distinct feeling he wouldn't be helpful at all so I'm just going to ask the incredibly moronic question of why I just got to second base with a girl and everything stayed the same.”

The guy seems to mull that over for a second.  “Can you more or less picture what you were expecting?”

“Uh, I don’t know, man.  Fireworks?  A sense of achievement?  The weight of my inexperience to be lifted from my shoulders?”

“Are you in love with the girl?”

Stiles just catches himself from snorting.  “I literally met her tonight.  I don’t even—oh, fuck, I don’t even remember her name.  Darla?  Dana?  Something like that.”

The guy makes a noise.  “Okay, so you don’t feel any different but you expected to.  Sometimes physical aspects of relationships are more meaningful and enjoyable when they’re with someone you actually care about.”

“Really,” Stiles says, his tone heavy with sarcasm.  “You're going to give me the _It's better when you love_ _them_ spiel?”

“No, sex can be great even when there isn't an emotional attachment, just as long as everyone is consenting and on board. But perhaps all those things you were expecting, you know fireworks and the world just seeming right, those—those might be things that come with being in love. Not with getting to second base.”

Stiles blinks.  “Huh.  Yeah, I mean…  Yeah, I guess so.”

“Don’t mistake sex for love.  It’s one of the worst mistakes anyone can make.”  He sounds like he would know.  “Is there anything else you wanted to ask about?”

Stiles shakes his head, yanking on his hair.  “No.  I—thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

He knows the guy isn't going to hang up until he does. Basic hotline etiquette.  He Googled that. So he takes a deep breath and lets the next words tumble out of his mouth in a rush.  “So the girl I talked to at 2 AM the other night—hey, you're not allowed to judge remember?—she said that you guys don't give your names out cause anonymity and whatnot but if it made me feel better she could tell me. And I'm not saying you have to but I did just totally spill my guts about my childish expectations to you at—oh, look—three in the morning. I hope you guys are allowed coffee, by the way. Anyway it would make me feel better if I knew your name.”

The guy hesitates for a moment.  “My name is Derek.”

Stiles smiles.  “Hey, not what I was expecting.  I dig it, though.  Cool name.”

“What were you expecting?”

“I don’t know, something more old school like Franklin or, I don’t know—don’t ask me tough questions, I’m tired.”  He squeezes his hand into a fist.  “So do you—you do this a lot, right?  I mean, this hotline.”

“Often, yes.”

Stiles winces.  He’s not going to ask for the guy’s schedule like a total creep but there’s something about the way he talks, about how he seems like he wouldn’t put up with Stiles’ shit and he’d be straightforward and helpful no matter what, that makes Stiles really comfortable.  And he thinks that’s a thing that he needs.  “All right, well I kind of get the point of it now. I called before. Talked to you? I mean you probably talk to a ton of people every day but—”

“I remember.”

“You probably say that a lot.”

“You thought the hotline was useless because God invented Google.”

Stiles grins to himself.  “Hey, you do remember.”

“I'm glad you find it useful now.”

“I mean, I know a lot of kids are in the same boat I am but I’m hundreds of miles away from home, just off to school on my own for the first time and I—it’s helpful.”  He swallows some building sense of affection, confused for a moment, and shakes it off.  “So…  Thanks.”

“It’s what we’re here for.”

Stiles hesitates a moment longer before he hangs up, nodding to himself.  Yes, he thinks, this is something he could probably get used to.

 

* * *

 

 

It still feels pathetic in the morning and he calls Scott instead. Scott tells him that he can't empathize because, well, he's madly in love with Allison so he really can't know what he's going through.

“But man, you know, don't throw yourself around. Cause you're important , you ma—”

“Dude,” Stiles stops him, “have you been watching _Glee_?”

There is a moment of complete silence and then, “You wouldn't know that if you didn't watch it.”

“Let us never speak of this again.”

It gets easier, though, Stiles finds.  Because the truth is that it had felt good to be able to be close to another person, all that stuff that people say about intimacy, and he knows it’s not just emotional, but physical.  And physical intimacy is pretty fucking awesome, too, Stiles knows.  As soon as he gets to experience it.

College is packed with a bunch of people who are totally cool with asking him out for coffee and then slamming him against his dorm door and groping him until he’s all loose-limbed and fuzzy.  It actually happens quite a few times before midterms come up, and at that point, Stiles feels like he’s going to lose his mind.

His dad is sick again.  Not really bad, just high cholesterol and danger signs for diabetes, the same prognosis his few previous physicals had warned him of.  And Stiles—Stiles had been making him better, helping him stay healthier.  He really needs more self-control.  And, as if that weren’t enough, in a few days it’ll be the anniversary of his mother’s death.  Those, on top of his tests, on top of three different girls (and one really hot guy with gorgeous eyes) groping him between classes—he doesn’t need it.  He thinks he’s going to explode.

“Reach Out Hotline, how can I help?”

Stiles nearly slaps himself.  “Ugh, dude. I'm sorry if this is super rude and I appreciate what you do but is Derek there?”

“Sorry, Derek's on the night shift,” the guy says, and he sounds a little bit like this is a first.  “Do you wanna talk about it for a while? You can call back after nine if you'd feel more comfortable talking to him.”

“I've—it's just stuff piling up, sorry I—it's not that I don't appreciate your help—”

“It's all right. After talking to someone a few times you kinda trust them, I get it. Do you want me to let Derek know to expect your call?”

“Uh, if it’s not creepy or weird or anything.”

“Don't worry about it; he'll be waiting for it. Are you sure you don't want to talk some of it out?”

Stiles is practically shaking but he just—he can’t.  He can’t make the words come.  So he shakes his head firmly and says, “No.  No, thank you, I’ll wait.”

By the time nine rolls around, Stiles thinks he’s going to die.  He’s taken a lot of Adderall, finished a ton of work, and is basically jumping around his room.  Gavin had left an hour ago to escape the madness and Stiles is grateful, because he comes to awareness at 9:13 and dials.

It still isn’t Derek who picks up, but it sounds like it might be the girl he talked to a while ago.  “Hi, I—can I talk to Derek?”

There’s hesitation on the line.  “He’s just finished a call.  I’ll transfer you over.”

“Thank you,” he says softly, pressing his fist against his forehead and praying that he’s not coming off like a lunatic.  “Thank you so much.”

“Hello, this is Derek.”

“Am I getting you in trouble because I'm desperately asking to speak to you by name?”

There's a pause of clear hesitation.  “That's not something you need to worry about. What's up?   How can I help?”

Stiles licks his lips and starts pacing.  “Do you think that sometimes the world, the Universe, God, whatever you call it, that it just starts piling stuff on your back just to see if you'll break?”

“I don't know if that's what happens but I know that's how it feels sometimes.”

“I know I'm supposed to just breathe but, man, I've been trying. I get panic attacks, you know , and I can deal. I've had them since I was twelve, since my mom died. That's seven years ago this Wednesday. And isn't it nuts? How the anniversary of something that world shattering can fall on a hump day? I have a paper due and three other classes that day and it's just Wednesday, you know? It's nothing. But I won't be able to get the image of her all tied up to machines and my dad looking like a truck ran him over in the rain and—and damn it, I wish he would take care of himself. Cause I can't lose him too Derek, if I do then what have I got?”  He sucks in another breath, his shoulders trembling.  “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”

Derek is quiet for a second. “Do you want to talk about your mom?”

Stiles can feel the sob building in his chest and when he opens his mouth, there it is.  He bites on his fist.  “Fuck, I—yeah, I think yeah.”

“You had twelve years with her.  What were they like?  What was she like?”

“She was—she was the best thing that ever happened to me,” Stiles says honestly.  “I mean, my dad tries and he’s great, I love him, but nothing held our family together like my mom did.  She was always happy about everything, always grateful to be able to—to be alive.”  He stops pacing, leaning back against the door of the room and sliding down it until he’s on the ground, his legs bent at the knee.  “She liked to cook.  And sing—she would sing a lot.  But mostly she read.  She read to me and she would read to my dad when he got home and they’d sit on the couch together and she would just—she was in the hospital,” Stiles recalls suddenly, tears already making their way down his face, “and she said she couldn’t believe she was going to go when there were still good books to read.”

“Death never comes when it should, in my experience. Not when it's someone you love.”

“Have you—did someone—”

“I've lost people. I don't know how you feel though, that's yours. And no one should try to water it down to something that everyone feels. I don't…  It never made me feel better when people said they had felt like I had. It just reminded me that there are a lot of sad people in the world. It made me feel better when people told me that I didn't have to stop feeling sad to also feel happiness again.”

“That,” Stiles sniffs and coughs out a laugh, “that doesn't make a lot of sense, dude.”

“See it's like—what does it feel like inside?”

“Like a hole.”

“Exactly. It feels like a hole. But someone told me that it's not that you're broken or missing something now, it's that the shape of…your soul, yourself, whatever you want to call it. It changes. And you have to get used to it before you can keep going.”

“It's been twelve years.”

“Still feels like a hole, though, doesn't it?”

“Yeah.”

“A hole you've got to fill with stuff. And if the stuff doesn't fit you just…feel worse. But if you feel that it's not a hole, just a change of shape, then maybe it won't feel like something's missing. You'll feel that she's with you.”

“And that'll make all of this stuff easier to handle?”

“When you called tonight you wanted to talk about all the stuff right?”

“Yeah.”

“But when we started to talk, there was no stuff, just this. Just missing her. You do know it's okay to miss her, right? Because it is.”

Stiles exhales heavily.  “So you’re saying I need to change the hole into…  Into a way to remember my mom.”

“Yeah, something like that,” Derek tells him.

He drags his hand across his face.  “I really fucking miss her, man.  My dad and I would use the anniversary of her death as an excuse to skip work and school and we’d just—we would go to the cemetery sometimes, just hang out with her, and sometimes we would just stay home and remember her.  And then, one year, we just…stopped.  Everything started getting too hectic and terrible to add another thing into the mix but—but I guess it wouldn’t have been another thing to worry about.  It could’ve been something to share.”  He laughs wetly.  “Man, I sound like a _Lifetime_ movie.”

“It sounds like that's a tradition that you and your dad need and deserve. I know life gets hectic and school and work are commitments, but it's all right to—” Derek pauses and there's something odd about this pause too, as if it's not something he can say easily.  “It's all right to have a little faith in people sometimes. Your professors may understand more than you know.”

Stiles yanks a hand through his hair.  “You’re really good at this, you know.  I was seconds away from breathing into a paper bag.”

Derek makes a kind of chuckle noise, soft and surprised.  “I didn’t start out very successfully.  But I’m glad I’ve helped somehow.”

“You have, man.”  Stiles laughs, tilting his head back to stare at the ceiling.  “This has been very…therapeutic.”

“I'm sorry you had such a hard time getting a hold of me,” Derek says, and he sounds genuinely apologetic.

“It would've been easier if I could've just sent you a text dude,” he says and immediately after thinks, _Oh, god, what the fuck did I just say?_   “I—oh, no, I didn’t—fuck, I mean—”  He bangs his head against the door.  “I sound like a total creep, I’m sorry, I just—I get it now.  How a complete stranger can be comforting.  But it sucks to think that the most comforting stranger is not always on call to help me figure out my shit, which, obviously, makes sense, like you have your own life, dude—”

“Hey,” Derek interrupts calmly.  “It’s okay.  I understand.  Repeat callers can be…  They can be more comfortable with a certain person.”

“Run into a lot of people like me?”

“Not me, personally.”

“You can’t tell me I’m the first one to actually find your advice helpful.”

“I wouldn't say that, it's just—I don't get to give a lot of advice. We're. We're actually not supposed to.”

“What?”

“We're only supposed to listen and I—I hope I've been helpful.”

“Dude, you have no idea how helpful you've been. But seriously people don't ask for you?”

“I tend to be asked for information or,” he chuckles, “for the hot sounding girl.”

Stiles grins.  “I don’t suppose that was the one I talked to?”

“Oh, trust me, you’d know if you’d talked to her.  She’s an, uh, acquired taste.”

“Apparently a taste that a lot of people are interested in acquiring.”

Derek laughs then, and Stiles feels his stomach clench.  “Apparently.”

Their goodbye is frighteningly similar to the last ones, Stiles thanking him and Derek being gracious about it, but there’s one difference.

“Look, if there’s an emergency, like a panic attack and everything,” Derek starts, and Stiles thinks he might actually be about to give Stiles his phone number, “everyone here is just as capable as I am.  More than, actually.”

Stiles closes his eyes.  “Yeah, of course.”

“You’ll be fine,” Derek tells him.

And Stiles hangs up after that, wondering how in the hell he’s actually going to deal with the fact that he’s developing a crush on the guy from a help hotline.

Stiles stresses about it. It's probably really counterproductive to stress about the crush you have on the guy that helps you let go of stress, but he does it anyway. Scott suggest that he try to make a list of what he loves about the guy, to try to determine how dumb of a crush it is. Scott really is way cleverer than anyone gives him credit for.  Because it boils down to this: Stiles knows nothing about him, not really.  He doesn’t know what the guy does for a living, what kind of pizza he likes, his favorite color—much less his last name.  And that’s kind of the first thing that makes Stiles sit up and take notice.

He’s not crushing on Derek.  He…  He likes the idea of being in love with someone, of having what Scott and Allison have, and that’s making him latch on to the first person he’s been emotionally truthful with in months.

He doesn't call the hotline again for months. He calls Scott when things get bad, he talks to his dad about missing mom and visits him more often, he even tries to talk to Danny about questioning his sexuality before Danny sighs and tells him that he's happy to talk guys if Stiles needs it but Danny doesn't know what it's like to be bi.

It’s not, Stiles realizes, a big deal.  He’s known for years that he couldn’t really define himself as straight, been aware of his attraction to guys and his fascination with how all of that works out, but then there’s someone that Stiles actually likes.  Seth is in his mythology elective and as Stiles spends more time with him, it’s ridiculously easy to see him as someone Stiles could want.  And so when Stiles starts to notice how his day is just a little bit better if he gets to see Seth, or how he grins at his phone when he gets a text from him, he knows he has to talk to someone about this.  Someone who, even if they don’t understand, will be able to do…something.

He isn't sure how he feels about talking to his crush about his crush so he bites his lip and smiles.  “Derek, you and I are bros, and I appreciate you. But I gotta talk to the hot girl today.”

Stiles leans back against his pillow and pictures an unidentified face with lifted expressive eyebrows.  “Uh—she's just grabbing some coffee.  Are you sure I can't—”

“It's about a guy. I'm a little gay. Like half way. It's not as complicated as I'm making it sound but I really need to talk to a chick about a guy if that's okay.”

Derek is quiet for a moment.  “I can—I mean—yeah,” he says finally.  “I’ll transfer you over.  Just—just a second.”

The hot girl, it turns out, sounds like she should be on a sex hotline.  Stiles can already picture her, probably busty and leggy and blonde, and he grins to himself, shaking his head.

“Hi,” Stiles starts.  “I—I kind of have an issue.  A guy issue.”

“A crushing-on-a-guy-I-might-be-gay-I'm-freaking-out issue or a guy-is-being-a-jerk-and-hurting-you issue?”

“More the former? I'm bi. At least, I think I am. I'm coming to terms with it and I'm crushing on a guy.”

“Do you find it different than crushing on a girl?”

Stiles considers that for a moment.  “I…  Only in my head, I think.  I mean, like, I feel a little less…intimidated.”

She laughs.  “Oh, I’m sorry, I just—you’re funny.”

Stiles smirks.  “Thanks, I think.”

“So, you’re panicking because you’re attracted to a guy.”

“No, see that’s the thing.  I’ve been attracted to a bunch of guys before,” Stiles says quickly.  “That’s never been an issue—that’s why I’ve been pretty sure I’m bi.  Right now…  This is the first time I can actually feel myself falling for him.”  And he can.  Seth is lovely and nice and he flirts with Stiles like he’s trying to win a race.  It’s kind of…overwhelming.

“Oh, honey, that would be nerve-wracking even if you were in love with a duck or an alien. Love is fucking terrifying.”

“ _ERICA_.”

Stiles pulls the phone away from his ear and blinks at it before listening in again. He can hear the girl sighing.  “I'm sorry. We aren't supposed to curse. I hope I didn't offend you.”

“No. No, no, of course not. It's totally fine.”

“Well, love is scary. Because you know, you're opening yourself up to getting shit on.”

“ERICA, FOR CHRIST'S SAKE.”

Stiles laughs.

“Look,” she continues, “you just—you gotta just relax about it, you know?  First of all, talk to him.  Find out what kind of page he’s on, if he’s feeling the same way about you.  And then you can go from there.”  She sighs.  “Falling in love is…scary,” she amends, “but it can be great.  And it’s going to happen to you sooner or later.  Wouldn’t you rather it be sooner?”

Stiles nods to himself.  “You know, you're great and you shouldn't let people call you Hot Girl.  Erica is a pretty name.”

“Thank you. Did I help you out?”

“A ton. Thank you so much.”

“See, Derek? I'm helpful. They _don’t_ just talk to me to jerk off.”

“ERICA!”

She laughs.  “Are you feeling better, hun?”

Stiles smirks.  “Yeah.  Thanks.”

“Any time.”

Stiles goes to bed that night feeling, for the first time in a long time, like he might actually be getting control over his life.

 

* * *

 

 

There’s an explanation for how he ended up on his back with Seth on top of him, unbuttoning his shirt and licking into his mouth.  He knows there is—there has to be.  But he can’t, for the life of him, remember what it is.

He’s not a total virgin anymore.  Since the first heady make out session with a stranger, it’s been like the fucking free clinic in their dorm, ladies coming and going, and it’s, uh, nice.  Kind of.  But that’s all stopped since he realized his feelings for Seth and so—and so he’s not so nervous about being terrible in bed.  At least he knows how to jerk a guy off.

It’s like two days until Christmas break, he needs to be studying for his finals, but instead he’s rolling on top of Seth and pining his shoulders down so he can lift his head and say, “So that’s a yes to you liking me back, then?”

Seth smiles like Stiles just said something terribly funny and reaches up kiss him again. He digs his fingers into Stiles' hair and runs his free hand over Stiles' shoulder and so Stiles can't concentrate, can't think about talking things through or making polite conversation, only about shoving off his shirt and getting to work on Seth's.

They’re almost naked when Seth finally says something.  Stiles is on top of him still, kissing his neck and yanking his jeans down his thighs, and Seth tugs on his hair and gasps into his mouth, “Suck me.”

Hypothetically, Stiles knows a lot about blowjobs.  He’s received one—that he never, ever wants to talk about ever again—and he’s watched a lot of porn and he knows about health and safety and how to put on a condom, but he can feel how the muscles in his throat flutter like they’re not totally sure if that’s a thing they’re cool with.

“C’mon,” Seth says, rubbing up against him.  “Please.”

Stiles bites his lip and falters a bit on his hands, readjusting the position of his knees.  “I haven't really ever—”

“It's easy,” Seth says, a little impatiently.  “Just try it.”  He works his fingers through Stiles’ hair, rubbing his scalp and licking his lips.  “I’ll talk you through it.”

Stiles figures it’s going to happen sooner or later.  He likes guys, he likes dick, and theoretically it’s something he wants to try, he just doesn’t know that he wants to try it now.  Seth is looking up at him with wide eyes, though, hands firm and comforting in his hair, and so he nods, smiling softly.  “Okay,” he says, and leans in for a final kiss before sliding down his body.

Seth doesn't give nearly as much direction as promised so Stiles sort of muddles through it. He gets why they call it a job, there's so much to think about, between not suffocating, not gagging, keeping his teeth covered and trying to act sexy all at once. At least he seems to be doing alright if the sounds Seth is making are anything to go by, even if his jaw is starting to ache.

He has to sit up when Seth’s hips start jerking, choking and coughing unattractively as he pulls back.

“Sorry,” he says quickly.  “Just…maybe not so much at once, yeah?”

Seth nods quickly, says, “Sure,” and tugs on Stiles’ hair until he’s back down, taking him in again.

It tastes like latex.  Seth hadn’t been crazy about using a condom but Stiles knew his shit—he wasn’t going down unless it was covered, and he said as much until Seth shrugged and told him to roll it on.  The whole situation isn’t nearly as sexy as Stiles expected it to be.  For one, guys in porn always were incredibly enthusiastic about sucking dick, sometimes coming themselves before their partner did, but Stiles is only half hard, twitching against his thigh and mostly acting like a disgruntled player on the bench.

And really he shouldn't be basing things off porn but usually the noises guys make when they come sound a lot more attractive than the weird hyena noises that Seth is making right now. Still, he made the guy he likes come and that gives him a little burst of pride. Achievement unlocked, even if it was more of a pain than he'd originally imagined.

He kind of expects Seth to sit up and pull him into a kiss, reach into his boxer briefs and jerk him off while they make out, but that’s not what happens.  Instead, Stiles sits up while Seth lounges back against the pillows, his eyes closed and his chest rising and falling steadily.  He’s hit with a twinge of annoyance, not even an offer for reciprocation, and it isn’t until he leans over and kisses Seth’s neck in an attempt to let him subtly know he’s still there that the other boy stirs, hands running down Stiles’ chest.

He does reach down and jerk him there, and it's not like it doesn't feel good, great really, except it's all pretty rushed and a little dry. He comes after a couple of minutes, his forehead against Seth's chest and his hand grasping at the pillows. He tries to move in for a kiss but he barely gets a peck before Seth is twisting and reaching for a shirt to wipe his hand. Stiles' shirt, actually.

Seth breathes in and leans back against the pillows again.  “See? Easy.”

Stiles smirks, but his chest is twisting uncomfortably.  “Yeah.  Uh, easy.”

He at least expects Seth to stay, to curl up next to him and cuddle for a little while, but instead he just gets out of bed and grabs for his clothes.  Stiles sits up to watch him, dragging the sheet over his waist.

“So, do you wanna get dinner tomorrow?” he asks.  “Maybe at that diner over by—”

“Nah, man, I got tests to study for.”  He smirks back at Stiles as he pulls on his shirt.  “And so do you.”

Stiles nods.  “Yeah, well—what about a study session?  At the library?  I’ll bring coffee—”

Seth sighs, reaching up to rub at the back of his neck.  “Stiles.”

“Seth?”

Seth smiles the way you smile at a little kid.  “This was fun.”

Stiles isn't a little kid so he understands what's been said. He rearranges his boxers and grabs for his jeans.  “Yeah, sure.”

“It's not that you aren't great—”

“Dude, I got it, it's fine.”

“You sure? I—”

“Can you go?”  He stops moving, just stares at Seth and doesn’t blink, waits for him to leave.  And after a moment, he nods and does, closing the door behind him.

There’s something ugly spreading inside of him, attacking that little bit of him that thought maybe Seth was someone he could really care about.  He falls back into bed and immediately regrets it, shuddering at the feeling of cooled sweat on his sheets.  He steadfastly refuses to get overemotional, though.  This isn’t—it’s not like this kind of thing doesn’t happen to people.  He just…wasn’t expecting it.  And that’s kind of the worst part: his blind faith that when Seth kissed him, it meant he wanted more than a half hour in bed.

He slaps at his cheeks because damn it, he's not going to lay here in the literal muck and sulk and cry like a kid. He gets up and pulls all the sheets off the bed and throws them in the hamper. He goes into a sort of fit fixing every inch of the dorm, even Gavin's wasteland of a territory and if he's crying the whole time so much so that it's hard to see well at least he's being productive while he's at it.

By the time he’s cried himself dry, he’s exhausted, and he falls on his bare mattress and tries to sleep, only to find that his body is too disgusting to be comfortable enough to drift off.  He’s got dried sweat on him, some fresh on his lower back from darting around and cleaning, and so he takes the hamper down to the laundry room and goes back upstairs to rub at his skin in the shower until he feels clean again.

It takes a while.

Gavin is back from the library by the time Stiles’ laundry is done, and he looks around the room quietly while Stiles folds his clothes.

“Do you wanna talk about something?” he asks.

Stiles shakes his head.  “Nope.”

“Did you get some studying in?”

“Not a lot.”  He clears his throat and grabs his clean sheets, making to stretch them across his bed.  “What about you?”

“I just came back to change.  Sarah and I are gonna go get coffee and then go back to the library so…”  He fumbles with the sweatpants in his hands.  “You should come with us.”

“Nah man,” he says softly.  “I've got to really settle in and study, thanks though.”

Gavin looks uncertain for minute and then nods. “Okay, well just call me if you need anything, all right? Like. Anything.”

“Thanks.”

 

* * *

 

 

He tries to study, he does, but it's useless. It's not the end of the world, he knows that, but he feels gross and empty and he doesn't like that at all. Still he's got tests to ace and stuff to learn and he doesn't have time for this now. He can't have time for this now.

When his bed is made once again he lies there with his phone in his hand and he contemplates calling.  Talking to Derek would make him feel better, but part of him wants to do this on his own. To know that he can get through it by himself.

But there’s something his mom used to tell him.  When he was younger and angry with Scott for hanging out with other kids on the playground, he didn’t want to be needy and annoying, worried he would scare Scott away, and his mom hugged him and wiped away his tears and said, “There’s nothing wrong with needing people.”

“Reach Out Hotline, how can I help?”

“I'm not sure.”

Derek's voice seems different once he speaks, like recognition mixed with something else.  “Did something happen?”

“Yes.”

“Are you all right?”

“I'm calling a help line aren't I?”

“Right. What's going on?”

“Got used for sex. Except it wasn't really sex. I don't think. Except it sort of was.  And I don't know if used is the right term. Maybe he didn't know I had like feelings for him and stuff.”  He trails off, sighing.  “I talked to Erica about him.  I like him.  Liked him.  Because I…”  He wants to say that he liked Seth because he knew stuff about him and could see himself falling for him, but then he tries to picture Derek, faceless, and something goes all weird inside of him.  “Anyway, maybe I should’ve realized something was up.  I mean, he was kind of…pushy.”

“I—do you—if he forced you—”

“No,” Stiles says immediately.  “No, I—it wasn’t like that, not really.  I just…  I just feel really…bad.  And not like my-mom-is-gone-and-I-miss-her bad, but like I-did-something-and-I-don’t-know-that-I-wanted-to bad.”

“If he pressured you—”

“I know the drill, man, I didn't feel threatened. I was all for it—when I thought he might really like me. It was just miscommunication is all.”

“You feel he led you on.”

“Pretty much.”

“I'm sorry.”

“I get the feeling that's not company policy on what you're supposed to say.”

“I get sick of the scripts sometimes.”

“Yeah? Aren't those like set in stone?”

“No, they're printed on copy paper.”

Stiles chuckles, rolling onto his stomach and grabbing his pillow.  “I know it’s supposed to be part of life, getting your heart broken—”

“Getting used for sex isn’t,” Derek interrupts.

“I just…  I don’t even know how much I even liked the guy,” Stiles sighs.  “I—I think I might’ve just been trying to find somewhere to put my feelings.”  He gulps and takes a deep breath before he says or does something stupid.  “Is Erica there?”

“Ah, not today.  She’s studying.”

“Right,” Stiles says with a nod.  “Finals.  I…  I need to study for finals.  She was—helpful, you know.  Is she really as hot as she sounds?”

Derek laughs.  “Objectively, yes.”

Stiles smirks.  “You could be Hot Sounding Guy and marry her and have Hot Sounding Babies.” Stiles pulls the phone away from him and stares at himself in the reflection in disgust because really where the _hell_ did that come from?

Derek clears his throat.  “Uh, I don't—I don't think so.”

“Sorry. Whoa, I'm sorry, I'm emotionally unstable.”

“It—it’s okay, really—”

“I just mean that you both seem—like—fuck, I’m gonna shut up now.”  He buries his face in his pillow and twists his mouth out a second later to say, “I’m kind of an idiot.  Like one hundred percent of the time.”

Derek is quiet for a moment.  “It sounds like you’re just stressed.  School and life and—and, you know, guys won’t always be like that.”

“Do you get more serious calls? Like not about stupid drama?”

“Your problems aren't stupid.”

“You know what I mean. Like life-threatening things?”

Derek hesitates. “We do, sometimes. Yes.”

“Does it help like put things in perspective for you?”

There is another pause. “It reminds me what it feels like. And that it doesn't keep feeling that way forever. That's what I try to tell people.”

Stiles closes his eyes.  “That’s nice of you.”

“Thanks.  Do you…  Do you want to talk about something else?  Or do you have to study?”

“Fuck, man.  I really have to study.”  He sits up, rolling his shoulders.  “You’re a terribly good influence on me, I swear.  I—thank you, Derek.  Seriously.”

“You’re welcome,” he says, and when Stiles hangs up, he just sits there for a moment to process everything.

“Fuck my life,” he whispers to himself, and gets up to go to his desk.

 

* * *

 

 

“Mystery Boy again?” Isaac asks, rolling his chair over to Derek after he’s hung up.  “What did he ask you about this time?”

Derek rolls his eyes.  “Can you stop calling him Mystery Boy?  He’s just a regular caller.  There’s nothing mysterious about him.”

“What's mysterious,” Isaac says with a grin, “is how you get when he calls.”

“Oh, yeah and how would that be?”

“Jumpy. Nervous. Excited,” he says, waggling his eyebrows.

“That's so wrong and unethical,” Derek says, “I don't even know where to begin.”

“You should ask his name,” Isaac suggests.

“That is actually directly opposed to our policy.”

“It's your nonprof! It's yours!

“It is not, I only keep it running. It's the same nonprof that helped you, that's why I bought it.”

“And put like a billion hours into. While studying. And teaching undergrads. Give yourself a chance, dude! The guy obviously likes you.”

“He’s a college freshman, Isaac,” Derek sighs as he stands and goes over towards the coffee machine.  “And he doesn’t obviously like me—he’s a nice kid, but we get callers who become attached to us—it’s just routine.”

Isaac glares.  “Erica’s stalkers don’t count.”

“Look, the kid is trying to adjust to a whole bunch of changes at once.”  He sits down again and shrugs.  “If there were any indications that he was forming an unhealthy attachment to me that would end with him being hurt, I would transfer him to other people.”

“There's nothing unhealthy about crushing on the guy who listens to you and helps you out.”

“You didn't crush on the people who helped you.”

“You helped me.  I called here in a crisis when you weren't around. But it doesn't count cause you're, you know, family.”

Derek smiles and ruffles Isaac's hair.  “Get back to work.”

“Do you hear the phone ringing?”

“Go get some coffee.”

“Fine, I'll leave you to your thoughts of Mystery Boy.” 

He gets up to move towards the coffee machine and Derek calls after him, “And keep studying!  You have a test tomorrow afternoon!”

Isaac flips him off.   “Yes, Dad!”

 

* * *

 

 

Going home, Stiles thinks, is extremely therapeutic.  It’s cheaper to drive up to Beacon Hills, pack a bag with the essentials and crash in his old bedroom for a few weeks, and then, when he goes back to school, he’ll feel refreshed and awesome because he, Stiles Stilinski, is a champion.

Hugs from his dad also help and if he hugs him a bit extra to distract him from the fact that he's raided and restocked the fridge with healthier options, well, hugs are hugs.

He also gets to spend time with Scott and Allison and even Lydia makes it back for a few weeks.  They manage to not fuck shit up as epically as they had in high school, but they head out to the picnic tables at the preserve and get disgustingly drunk, trading bottles of Jack Daniels and Vodka that tastes like birthday cake.  He and Lydia are pressed up against each other by the time he presses his face into her throat and bemoans his love life.

She pets his hair and lets him lean his cheek on her boob. “Oh, honey, you've got to beat them at their own game. Fuck them before they fuck you. Twice. No dates.”

“Lydia,” Allison tsks, “that's terrible advice.”

“Works great for me.” Lydia shrugs.

“Yes, but Stiles doesn't have your—temperament. He's a gentle soul.”

“So gentle,” Scott mumbles against the table.

Stiles nuzzles against Lydia again.  “I didn’t expect to care so much.  Sex is supposed to be easy.  Sex is supposed to be—I’m supposed to just be able to go out and have sex without caring but apparently that’s not how I work.  Apparently I’m built to actually give a fuck about people and I hate it.”

Lydia coos and continues to pet him.  “It’s okay.  That’s how Danny is too—maybe you two should bond more.”

Allison rubs at Stiles’ back.  “You deserve someone who’s going to love you, Stiles,” she tells him, leaning into Scott.  “You deserve everything.”

Scott makes a whiny noise and Allison laughs before leaning down to kiss his forehead. “You already have everything, Scott.”

The boy smiles and cuddles onto her lap. “Yeaaah I do.”

Stiles rolls his eyes.  “You disgust me.  Both of you disgust me.  I just want—I just want to feel that, you know?”  He peeks up at Lydia.  “Did I love you?”

She shakes her head.  “No.  You worshipped me.  Different thing.”

He presses his lips against her temple.  “You’re so smart.”

“I know.”

“I want somebody to love,” Stiles says slowly.  “Like Anne Hathaway in that movie with the prince and shit.”

“You’ll find somebody,” Allison says.  “Just…don’t rush it.  Let it happen.  That way, when it comes, you’ll know it’s real.”

Scott grins at her.  “My girlfriend’s so smart.  Isn’t she so smart?  She’s so smart.”

Stiles closes his eyes again.  “I think I wanna go home now.”

“Yeah—good idea.”

 

* * *

 

 

For some reason, school is just slightly easier that semester.  He hangs out with Gavin and his girlfriend, Sarah, and finds a job at a Starbucks off campus—he hates himself for it but he can’t even pretend to care because he gets discount coffee when he’s up late studying—and when he gets down into his schoolwork, he almost slaps himself over the head for not getting it sooner.

He’s been too hung up on what people told him in high school.  In college, they said, it would be easier to find someone to be with.  There would be relationships and moments and stuff that he didn’t have in his hellhole of a secondary education and—and Stiles had thought that meant immediately after leaving Beacon Hills, he’d fall in love.  But he knows that that’s not the case and he has all the time in the world.  So he just needs to stop worrying about it.

And surprisingly enough, that’s exactly what he does.

What occupies his thoughts day and night now are the papers he has to write and the exams he needs to study for. Now in particular what takes up his mind is how much he freaking loves his Intro to Sociology course. The professor is awesome, she's clear and enthusiastic about the subject and her lectures are never boring. It helps that her TA, who sits silently at the corner of the classroom, is great to look at during downtime. He's only a little bit concerned about the presentation he has to give for her, and by a little bit he means absolutely freaking out.

It’s not that hard to figure out everything he needs, but it’s terrifying to think that it’s just going to be her there, judging him silently while he explains his project.  So, lost, he decides to bite the bullet and email the TA.  He’s actually never really met the guy before, can’t remember his name for the life of him, and so he has to find out his email from Sarah, who’s in his class.

“Oh, yeah, I think his name is like David or something,” she says, nodding.  “I’ve emailed him before, it’s d-h-a-l-e.”

Stiles waves her off from his place at his desk.  “You’re a goddess.”

 

To: dhale@ucla.edu

From: s.stilinksi@gmail.com

 

Hey, I’m in Professor Winston’s Intro to Soc class, and I was just wondering if you could give me a few tips about how to handle my presentation, “do”s and “do-not”s and the like.

Thanks,

Stiles

 

To: s.stilinski@gmail.com

From: dhale@ucla.edu

 

Hello Mr. Stilinski,

I'm attaching a copy of a sample presentation and the scoring rubric. Above all make sure that your presentation is professional but natural, don't overreach for more “intellectual” vocabulary and explain the concepts as you understand them.

I've graded a few of your papers myself and I'm confident you know the material. Relax, you'll do well.

Regards,

D. Hale

 

* * *

 

 

It’s two weeks until the end of the school year when Mystery Boy calls again.  Derek is leaning back in his chair, double checking Dr. Winston’s presentation grades like she asked him to, and avoiding eye-contact with Isaac when the phone rings.

“Reach Out Hotline,” Derek says as he sets down his folder, “how can I help?”

“Derek!” the voice says.  “Man, you have no idea how glad I am to hear your voice, dude—so there’s a thing.”

Derek looks over at Isaac, who grins at him and mouths, _Mystery Boy?_

Derek flips him up.  “What’s up?”

“I kind of started going out with this girl.  Like—like, as soon as I stopped looking, there she was.  And she’s awesome.  Funny, smart, kind.  And so, I’m leaving to go home for the summer and I—I kinda wanna ask her to go with me.  Just for, like, a week, maybe two.  Is that a terrible idea?”

Derek takes a moment to answer.  “It doesn't sound terrible. Just as long as she seems enthusiastic about the idea, I don't see why not—”

“Me neither, isn't that great? I thought about it and thought about it and couldn't come up with a single reason why it'd be terrible.”

“So you just called—”

“To make sure I wasn't totally insane.”  He laughs.  “Fuck, wow, I’m so excited.  I—I gotta go ask her right now.  You’re the best, Derek—have a good summer!” and then he hangs up.

Derek blinks at the phone as he presses the end button and then turns away from it, removing his headset and rubbing at his eyes.  “Don’t you have things to be doing, Isaac?”

“Nah, Erica took my call, so I’m just hanging out.”  He rolls over.  “So.  What did Mystery Boy have to say?”

Derek huffs air out of his nose and grabs a water bottle. “He's taking a girlfriend back home for the summer. See? No crush.”

Isaac frowns.  “That's rough, man, I'm sorry, how can I help?”

Derek growls playfully and throws the water at him. “Shut up, you idiot.”

“You’re telling me you never once had feelings for him?  Even a little bit?”  He rolls closer, arching an eyebrow.  “You never wondered what he looked like?  You never let yourself imagine for like two seconds what would happen if you met him?”

“It’s not like that, okay?”  Derek taps his fingers against the desk.  “Honestly, I don’t—it’s not like that.”

“Sure.”  Isaac nods.  “Sure, whatever you say.”

It’s a few weeks later when the news is confirmed: Derek gets a two course professorship and he can't really believe it at all so he goes back to the apartment and tells Isaac and they get absolutely smashed. It's hard for either of them to get very drunk, it's just not how they're built, but they're pretty loose and laughing and reminiscing on the couch as Derek looks over the letter again. “I'm going to have to speak in public.”

“Yeah well,” Isaac says with a shrug, “it comes with the job.”

“Fuck, man.”  Derek tips his head back.  “I’m gonna have a real job.”

Isaac nods.  “Not that you need one.  Geddit?  Because you’re filthy stinking rich and I hate you.”

Derek shoves him over and takes another pull from the bottle in his hand.  “Really?  Because I’m helping pay your tuition and you live here rent-free.  Still hate me?”

“Nah,” Isaac says.  “I love you.”

“That’s fucking right.”

“No, but, not cause of that. I love you ’cause, like, you're my best friend and my brother and my dad you know? You're like Superman.”

Derek swallows thickly.  “I know. I know, I love you too, Isaac.”

Isaac sniffs.  “Man, we get weepy when we're drunk.”

“This never happened.  Agreed?”

“Agreed.”

 

* * *

 

 

It’s a long summer in Beacon Hills.  Stiles’ girlfriend, Amanda, is lovely and kind and she gets along with Stiles’ dad so well—it feels like a miracle.  And then Amanda goes home.  And it’s not that Stiles isn’t totally capable of having space, of hanging out with his friends and his dad, but there’s something that’s kind of annoying him.

He isn’t sure that he misses her.

Like, he likes her.  A lot.  He spends time with her and they sleep in the same bed together sometimes and they’ll go out, but…  But honestly, Stiles would be thinking they were only good friends if it weren’t for the fact that they made out a lot.

They don't break up so much as disintegrate and it's fine, really, he doesn't cry and as far as he knows neither does she. They still text when they spot funny looking dogs in the street, which is often. Still it means that he's single again come the new school year and he decides he's going to keep it that way, he's going to focus on his studies.

He has his list of classes and his schedule and he and Gavin bought an apartment off campus that they share with Sarah—because apparently she’s not as much of a fling as Gavin had said she was—and he’s so set for his sophomore year, he feels like he knows everything.  He decides to sign up for Sociology of Sexuality just because it’s a new class and it sounds interesting and it could kind of fit in with his major anyway, so he’ll go with it.  He’s not expecting to walk in and find that last year’s Intro to Sociology TA is his professor, but he can’t honestly say that he minds.

He takes a second-row-middle-of-the-room seat that would have gotten him a Teacher's Pet reputation in high school but is actually quite coveted in a university lecture hall, especially one as small as this one. It does well for participation points, which this course requires a couple of. The TA, now known to all as Professor Hale, is as handsome as he ever was. Together with the subject matter, this is looking more and more like Stiles' favorite class of the semester.

There a kid who sits at the back of the classroom that Stiles notices on the first day of class.  He’s blonde and his favorite accessory, not including his scarves, is apparently a smirk.  He’s pretty cute, slender and long-limbed like Stiles is, and he almost thinks about asking him out, but he made himself a promise.  School comes first.

He can’t remember the last time he talked to Derek.  Well, he can, and that makes him feel a little weird because he—he isn’t even sure Derek remembers him.  And if he does, how does he feel about the fact that Stiles hasn’t called in months?  But he hasn’t really had any reason to call, and maybe that should make Derek feel…good?  Possibly?  Either way, Stiles can’t even remember what the guy’s voice sounds like—mostly—and so he thinks if he’s going to call, he needs to come up with a good reason.  And he has nothing.

Still he reassures himself that people in Derek's line of work feel glad when people don't need them anymore, as harsh as that sounds. It's true, that Stiles doesn't need Derek, but he does miss talking to him. Misses him.

He hits himself in the forehead with his phone three times before he dials.

“Reach Out Hotline, how can I help?”

“Uh, hey, is Derek there?”

There’s a pause.  “Sorry, he’s not here today.  Can I help you with something?”

Stiles licks his lips.  “What about Erica?”

“Sure, just a moment.”  There’s a ringing sound and then he hears, “Why, hello there, stranger.”

He smirks.  “Hey, Erica.”

“You’ve been conspicuously absent for a while.  How’s life?”

“Pretty good which I guess is why I haven't called. But it felt kind of screwed up that I only call you when I need you. Even though we're not all really friends or anything. Wow, I tend to say some really stupid stuff, don't I?”

“We missed hearing from you, but it's great that you're doing well.”

“So—uh, I wanted to say hi to Derek but—”

“He's at his paying job.”

“Right. Right, of course.”

“He's just started so we're making him take a few days off from this.”

Stiles nods to himself.  “So does he, I mean, he likes the hotline.  If he’s being forced away from it.”

“Oh, yeah, I mean, the thing’s basically his baby.”  She pauses.  “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“I’m sorry if I’m totally out of line or anything, but it just kind of seemed, when you disappeared for a while, that you were in a relationship.  Is that still a thing that’s going on?”

“Uh, no. No, it isn't. I'm totally focusing on school now and not the many hot people I'm surrounded by.”

“Oh. Cause, you know, he was happy you were happy but it kind of made his pretty face all grumpy. That you were dating someone.”

“ _Erica_!”

“Sorry that's my cue to go, if there's nothing else I can help you with?”

“Uh that is—that is quite a lot. Enough. Well.”

“Thank you, you might want to call back at eight-ish on Sunday? Okay, goodnight!”

She hangs up and Stiles is left staring at his phone, blinking in a daze.  Derek…was grumpy.  Derek was grumpy that Stiles was dating someone.  That—that makes no sense at all.  None.  Because they don’t even know each other and Stiles has been off the grid for months so—so if Derek had any feelings for him at all, they’re most likely gone now.  Like, way gone.  Like, not even something anyone is going to speak about.  Because they’re gone.

Stiles grabs his pillow and pulls it over his face.  That’s how Sarah finds him a few minutes later, an eyebrow arched as she pulls the pillow away.

“What is it?” she asks.

“I think I’m in love with Derek again,” he mutters.

Sarah nods.  “Cool.  Have fun with that.”

He muffles his screams into his pillow before taking a deep steadying breath and giving up studying in favor of a Twilight Zone marathon.

 

* * *

 

 

Professor Hale is hot and sassy if a little bit of a douchebag occasionally. Most interestingly though, he seems compassionate to people's problems. Stiles thinks that a lot of his classmates are only taking advantage of the newbie professor when he sees them asking for a moment of his time after class. Extensions and breaks, he's sure they're pleading, and the look Professor Hale gives them is so kind and soft that Stiles forgets all about what a douche he can be.

Stiles doesn’t call the hotline on Sunday, chickens out at the last minute and tells himself that it’s a dumb decision to continue feeding false hopes, and instead he curls up with Gavin—girlfriend-less for the night—and watches Planet of the Apes.  Because he can.

It’s two weeks later that he actually has a reason to call.  The blonde kid in his class is behaving in increasingly strange ways around Professor Hale, and—and it’s worrying.  Stiles has nothing against a little flirtation with a teacher, as long as it’s harmless, but the way the kid and Hale communicate, Stiles is almost worried that they’re sleeping together.

And he has literally zero idea what to do about it.

It’s none of my business, he tells him.  I shouldn’t do anything.

Another part of him, traitorous and evil, slaps the other part across the face and comes back with, What if the kid is getting hurt?  Being used?  What if Professor Hale is being blackmailed into giving better grades?  What if—what if—what if—what if you can use this as an excuse to talk to Derek again?

He sits at his desk and contemplates for a full two minutes.  “Fuck,” he sighs.  “I can’t believe I’m actually going to do this.  This is shameful, Stilinski.  Super fucking shameful.”

“Reach Out Hotline, how can I help?”

“Erica!” Stiles nearly shouts.  “Hey!  Wow, hi, nice to hear your voice again—is Derek around?”

She seems like she must be smirking.  “Honey, I told you to call on Sunday.  It’s a Wednesday afternoon—he’s working.”

“Right.”  Stiles scratches at the back of his neck.  “Okay, so I actually have an issue this time, wanna embrace it?”

“Shoot.”

“I think someone in my class might be sleeping with the professor and I have no idea what I’m supposed to do about it.”  It sounds stupid just coming out of his mouth.  He almost decides to back out while he still can when Erica speaks.

“What makes you think that?”

“Oh, well, just—signs, you know?  Like this kid, he constantly flirts with the teacher, making eyes and all that junk and he—he was leaving one day at the same time I was packing up my stuff and he kind of lingered at the desk and said this really cheesy line—he called the dude Papa Bear, Erica.  I can’t make this shit up.”

Erica hums.  “And so you’re worried that something…untoward is going on?”

“I don’t even know!” he sighs.  “I mean, people’s kinks confuse me, I gotta say.  I don’t really understand why people think there’s a general sexiness about a professor.  I mean, he’s kinda gorgeous, sure, but—but that’s not the point!  I—what if he’s being blackmailed, Erica?  What if he slipped up and fucked the kid and now he’s holding the professor accountable or whatever and making him give him good grades?”  He presses his head into his free hand.  “Tell me what to do.”

“Well, first of all, calm down.  Second, I mean, there’s a reason schools have anonymous hotlines for tips and stuff.  If it really makes you that uncomfortable, you could go with one of those things.”

Stiles groans.  “No, I mean—I don’t know!  I don’t know anything!”

“You said the guy was hot, right?  Your professor?”

“Sure.  Objectively.”

Erica laughs.  “Okay, so do you think maybe you’re overreacting about a thing that might not even be a thing because you’re maybe a little upset that the thing maybe not happening is a thing that’s maybe not happening with you?”

Stiles blinks.  “I’m actually too proud of myself for understand what you just said to even answer that question.”

“Well?”

“No,” Stiles tells her, “of course I’m not jealous!  I mean, why would I be jealous?  He’s hot, yes, but I don’t—I don’t want him.  Not like that.  How—why would I?”

“Hmm, well, do you like his subject?”

Stiles winces.  “It’s my favorite class.”

“So he’s a good teacher?  How old is he?  Not like creepy-old, right?  Because whatever floats your boat, but—”

“No, he’s like 29-ish.  Maybe 30.”  Stiles stands from his desk chair and moves towards his bed.  “Erica, I don’t have a crush on my teacher.  You’re crazy.”

“Honey, I’m just calling it as I see it.  And you’re right, I don’t know all the facts, but it seems like there might be something going on there that you’re ignoring to make yourself more comfortable.”  She pauses, like she’s waiting for Stiles to respond, and when he doesn’t, she sighs.  “Okay.  Tell me what you want to do.”

“I want to pretend like this never happened.”

“I can do that.”

“Erica?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you guys have like caller-person confidentiality?”

Erica laughs breathily.  “I can if you’d like me to.”

“I don’t think I have a crush on my professor,” Stiles tells her slowly, “because I’m like 98 percent sure I’ve been crushing on Derek for a long time.  Which is dumb, I know, you don’t even have to tell me how dumb it is because I don’t even know the guy and I think I only convinced myself I liked him because we talked a lot and he was helpful and so I grew attached and I’m so dumb because I still sometimes think about him and I—”  He breaks off, his heart pounding in his chest.  “I need to get over him.  As soon as is humanly possible.  So, okay, yeah, I think my professor is hot and I’m jealous that I’m not having a steamy, ridiculously dumb affair with someone who looks like he does, but I—I don’t care that it’s him.  I care that no one seems to want me as soon as I want them.”

Stiles is silent, waiting for Erica to respond, and when she doesn’t, he frowns.

“Erica?”

He pulls the phone away and sees that the screen is black.  The call disconnected.

“Fuck my life,” he sighs.

 

* * *

 

 

He knows it's a bad thing, of course, to eavesdrop. But he can't help it. He takes his sweet-ass time packing up when the lecture is finished and watches everyone file out of the room except the boy with the golden curls and himself. Finally he hitches his book bag over his shoulder and leaves the room, dropping a pencil case to leave the door slightly open and flattening himself against the wall outside the room.

“I should be recording this,” the boy says quietly, obviously amused.

“I'll fucking kill you.”

“Aw, Professor Hale, come on. Everyone at the office would get a kick out of it, I'm sure.”

“I'll cut you off, Isaac; you'll be out on the street.”

“You love me.”

“You know I do, now go. Get.”

Stiles’ heart lurches into his throat.  He—doesn’t understand everything.  Not every bit.  Obviously.  But—but that’s some—some suspicious stuff.  And oh, fuck, the kid is heading towards the door and—

“Hey,” he says, bending down to pick up Stiles’ pencil case.  “You dropped this.”

Stiles swallows tightly.  “Thanks.”

The kid, Isaac, cocks his head.  “You heard that, didn’t you?”

“What?  I—no, of course not, I—”

“He’s not my sugar daddy, if that’s what you’re wondering,” he says with a smirk.  “The professor and I have been friends for a long time—I like to tease him.”

Stiles shakes his head.  “It’s none of my business.”

“Kid,” Isaac says, with a pleased smile on his face, “I'm glad you think I could snag something that looks like Professor Hale, but he's literally my legal parent, or was until I turned 18. So please, stop letting your imagination run wild? The looks you throw me in class aren't subtle. Also you're awful judgey.”

“Oh—I—”  He snaps his mouth shut, silently begging himself to stop while he can.  “Sorry,” he says instead.  “I shouldn’t have…assumed.”

“You’re right, you shouldn’t have, but I’m willing to accept an apology from you in the form of a legitimate introduction.”  He sticks out his hand.  “Isaac Lahey, sophomore, Communications major.”

“Stiles Stilinski,” Stiles responds, smirking.  “Sophomore, Education major.”

“My girlfriend is having a Sex and the City marathon I'm being held hostage at. I've got imported beer if you can stand an evening of Sarah Jessica Parker and you'd be doing me a solid. I'd even forget about this whole thinking I'm sleeping with my adoptive dad stuff.”

Stiles laughs.  “Wow, that’s, uh, a very strange way to make friends, but I’m totally up for it.”

Isaac grins.  “Cool.  If you survive the torture, we can call it even.”

 

* * *

 

 

Derek rolls up to his station at Reach Out at six o’clock that night, coffee in hand.

“I hope you don’t think you’re working until midnight, Derek,” Boyd says as he strolls past on the way to his desk.  “Because you have a lecture tomorrow.”

Derek shrugs.  “At two in the afternoon.  I’m totally fine.”

“Erica,” Boyd calls, “Derek’s being crazy again.”

“Derek,” Erica says, clicking her tongue.  “Mystery Boy called today.”

Derek raises an eyebrow.  “Did he now?”

“Yes, I think he misses you.”

Derek chokes on his coffee a little.  “What?”

“Well, he keeps asking for you—and you know you guys haven’t spoken in, well, forever.”

“Erica, don’t be ridiculous.”

“I’m just saying.”  She shrugs.  “It was kinda weird, though.  His call disconnected and he didn’t call back, so.”  She twirls in her chair.  “Maybe he’ll call tonight, though.”

The boy doesn't call, or if he does Erica doesn't disturb him with it. He spends two and a half hours on the phone with a young woman in Minnesota who can't breathe for the first twenty minutes of her call and then goes on to tell Derek how dark her world is, how desperate and alone she feels. Boyd helps him make arrangements while he stays on the call, handing Derek the number and address of shelters and homes where she can go be safe and finally calling the girl's grandparents in Colorado. It's a difficult night, but at the end of the call he feels certain that there is more hope in the girl's tone and that he helped and that is always, always worth it.

It tires him out emotionally, makes him want to curl up in bed and just give up for the night, and when he closes his eyes for more than ten seconds, Erica is yanking him away from his station and shoving him towards the door.

“We know how to take care of stuff, Derek,” Erica scolds.  “You work a real job now.  You’re extra tired.  The rest of us have jobs too and we only come in three or four times a week—you don’t have to try to make it in every day while you’re pushing the 9 to 5.”  She points at the door.  “Go home.  Go to sleep.  Tuck Isaac in and bring him a cookie—just don’t be here.  You’re done.”

Derek sighs but gets into his car nonetheless, drives in the direction of home when he decides that there's no way he'll get any sleep tonight. He parks at a 24-hour diner near the school where he can make himself properly tired without disturbing Isaac's sleep. He has plenty of papers to grade and the bad coffee will drive him away before dawn.

It’s only about two hours later when he gets a text.

 

**From Isaac (12:33 AM) :**

Hey, sorry, I’m heading home now. Hope you haven’t been waiting up.

 

Derek sighs heavily.  That fucking kid.

He only has one more paper on the pile, seriously the final one, and he recognizes the name from the Intro to Sociology class he TA’d for the year before.  Stiles Stilinski—a bright kid, clever, and he’s not doing terribly in Derek’s class either.

Derek had asked them to write a very simple paper, a way to gauge their understanding of the course so far, and Stiles is obviously comprehending everything Derek has put out there, and he even adds a few ideas of his own about the nature of sexuality and the stigmas attached, and Derek’s impressed.  He shouldn’t be surprised that the only kid Professor Winston gave an A to on the final presentations last year is doing so well.

He drives home when his tongue just can’t take the shitty coffee any longer and finds that Isaac is already there, wandering around the living room with a beer in hand.

“I called Erica,” he says.  “She told me you left Reach Out like three hours ago.”

“Calm down.  I went to grade papers and now I’m going to bed—because some of us have jobs to get to. In fourteen hours.”

Isaac smirks.  “And you wonder why I’m such a little shit sometimes.  It’s all your fault.”

“And where have you been?”

“At Christie's with Vanessa and Jerome and this guy I fished out of your lecture to help me survive the sheer chick flick horror. And no, Jerome does not help with that at all—he wanted to paint my nails.”

Derek grins and takes the beer from him as he sets down his briefcase.  He takes a pull.  “Sounds fun.  You’re picking up guys from my lectures now?  How does Christie feel about that?”

“Actually, they got along pretty well.”  Isaac takes back the bottle and follows Derek as he hangs up his suit jacket and unbuttons his shirt.  “You know Christie.  She gets along with everybody.  Mostly.”

Derek snorts.  “So which kid?”

“Stilinski.”

Derek raises both eyebrows.  “I just graded his paper. He's good.”

He takes another drink of beer and Isaac smirks.  “He thought we were having raunchy student-teacher sex.”

Derek almost throws the bottle at him.  Once he finished choking, he sets it down and reaches over to smack him over the head.  “You know better than to say shit like that while there’s liquid in my mouth.”

“Hey, the fact that I wasn’t even lying makes it even better.”  Isaac leans in his doorway while Derek disappears around the corner to finish undressing.  “He’s been giving me weird looks in class and I caught him listening in when I was leaving after class today.  I think he’s got a crush on you.”

Derek tuts and returns in boxer briefs and a T-shirt but doesn't say a word. Isaac grins.

“You like him too!”

“Don't be an idiot, I hardly know his name.”

“No one does.  Apparently it sucks so everyone just calls him Stiles.”

“Go to bed, Isaac.”

“Oh, this is great, wait till Erica hears about this.”

Derek glares.  “Don’t tell Erica.  She’s still giving me hassle about Mystery Boy.  Fuck—now, I’m calling him that.”

Isaac’s eyes go wide, his brow lifting.  “Oh?  Did he call tonight?  Because you guys haven’t spoken since he took his girlfriend home last May.”

“No, he didn’t call.  I keep telling you, I may never even talk to the kid again, it wasn’t a big deal.”

“Except for how you never even found out his name and—but wait, Mystery Boy is completely negated if you start hooking up with Stiles.”

“I wouldn’t hook up with a student, Isaac.  Honestly.”  He raises a hand, pointer finger stretched out.  “Not that that’s what makes me unwilling to hook up with him because I don’t feel the way about him that you apparently think I do.  Stop trying to tell me who I have feelings for.  It’s weird.”

“Derek.”  Isaac reaches out his hand, placing it on Derek’s shoulder.  “I have nothing but the utmost respect for you.  Which is reason number one as to why I’m trying to get you to just fucking find someone, man.  It’s seriously pathetic.  You need to get laid.  Immediately.  Who was the last person you slept with?  That high school teacher you met at a conference in San Francisco?”

Derek levels him with a glance.  “Yes.  But—but that doesn’t mean anything.”  He sighs, sitting down at the edge of his bed.  “Look, the guy from Reach Out was a few intimate moments of attachment and yeah, there was something that I felt that I wanted to explore, but it’s against policy to do anything like that and so that ended.  And even if I did notice Stilinski, he’s my student.”  He grabs Isaac’s shoulders.  “I appreciate the slightly creepy attempts to help me find someone, but you’re just gonna have to try harder.”

“I have,” Isaac says, leaning forward.  “I read the university policies forwards and backwards. Nothing against dating students anywhere.”

“Well there should be.  And it’s implied.  So.”  He pushes Isaac towards the door.  “You’re going to the office tomorrow morning—you need sleep.”

“I got Stiles’ number in my phone if you want it, man.”

“Go.”  He closes the door as soon as Isaac is on the other side of it, rolling his eyes, and drags his hand down his face.  “Fatherhood,” he mutters, and smirks as he falls into bed.

 

* * *

 

 

The next day it’s hard to keep his gaze from being pulled towards the Stilinski kid, even as he feels Isaac's own eyes following him, smug expression clear as day on his face. As the rest of the class files out, he clears his throat and tries to sound certain and confident when he asks Stiles to stay a moment. Isaac's smirking face is absolutely unbearable at this point, especially as he passes by his desk knocking his knuckles on the wood and winking. “See ya at home.  Or not.”

Derek takes a deep, steadying breath as Stiles approaches him.

“What’s up?” he asks, hand gripped around the strap of his bag.

“I just wanted to tell you that your paper was really impressive,” Derek says, handing it over.  “Insightful and interesting and—very well written.  Are you taking writing classes?”

“Not extensively.  I mean, I wanna be an English teacher, maybe.”  He shrugs.  “But I haven’t really decided yet.”

There’s something bugging him in the back of his brain, something about the interaction they’re having, and Derek guesses it must be Isaac’s dumb comments, so he simply nods.  “Well, you’re obviously understanding the course.”

“I'm glad it shows.”

The kid seems nervous and Derek certainly doesn't want Isaac's stupid comments to disrupt a great student's work so he tries for the mature route of communication.  “Isaac told me that you had a—mistaken impression of our relationship.”

Stiles goes a startling pale shade.  “Oh, Professor Hale, I—I would never—”

“No, hey.”  He holds up a hand.  “It’s okay.  Isaac is, uh, as I’m sure you know, an interesting character.  I just wanted to make sure you didn’t feel uncomfortable with his…behavior.”

“No!” Stiles says immediately.  “No, of course not.  It’s totally cool.  I mean, I think it’s awesome—he told me how you’re, like, practically his dad and I think that’s awesome.”

“Yes, I—I adopted him. We're a little more complicated than that but, family, nonetheless.”

Stiles licks his lips.  “I'm sorry I implied there was pseudo incest going on, I didn't know.”

“And there was no way for you to know.  I just wanted to make sure everything was clear.”  He shrugs.  “And tell you that you received the highest grade in the class for your paper.”

Stiles grins.  “Thanks, Professor Hale.”

As soon as he says that, it clicks in Derek’s brain like one, comically large light switch.  His stomach twists and he thinks he might wanna be sick, but instead he simply nods, forces a smile, and says, “You’re welcome, Mr. Stilinski.”

When Stiles is gone, he collapses behind his desk, putting his head in his hands.  He doesn’t know for sure, can’t really know for sure, but the voice.  As soon as he’d thanked Derek—as soon as he’d said that, Derek had recognized the voice and it just seems like that’s the only possible explanation for what’s going on in his head.

He wants to punch himself in the face.  Stiles.  Stiles is Mystery Boy.  Really?  Stiles freaking Stilinski with the moles and the quirky little smile and the brilliant mind—that’s Mystery Boy.  That’s the guy who Derek talked to about his mother’s death and who Erica and Isaac made fun of Derek for because—because of some stupid idea that he was going to get attached.  And fuck it all, he’s attached.

“This is the worst of all possible worlds,” he mutters into his hands.

“Tsk,” he hears Isaac say from the doorway.  “Boy am I glad you don't teach philosophy.”

He doesn't even look up, only points towards the hall.  “Away with you, demon child, go to Stats.”

“It doesn’t start for another hour and Christie canceled our coffee date to help Jerome stalk a guy across campus.”  He walks completely into the room and drops his bag on the opposite side of Derek’s desk.  “I was right, wasn’t I?”

Derek looks up.  “You knew.”

Isaac looks amused.  “You’re kidding, right?  I answered the phone the other week when he called—he asked for you and when you weren’t there, he asked for Erica.  As soon as I ran into Stilinski in the hall, as soon as he opened his freaking mouth, I knew it was him.  You’re telling me that you thought me bugging you about two different guys in the same night was one big coincidence?”

“I’m going to kill you in your sleep.”

“Hey.”  Isaac moves around the desk to sit on it, knocking his knee against Derek’s side.  “Is it really so bad?”

“I’m going to have to tell him.”

“Why?”

“Because he deserves to know who I am so that he can drop the class if he wants to.”  He shakes his head and stands up, grabbing his briefcase.  “I have to get to Reach Out.  I’m working until eight tonight.  Are you going to Christie’s?”

“No.  Stiles invited me over to his place to watch guy movies and eat pizza with him and his roommate.  A cure to counter the vagina I grew after nearly six full hours of Sex and the City.”  He pats Derek’s arm.  “Just relax, okay?  It’s not the end of the world.  You know that, right?”

Derek nods.  “Yeah.  Sure.”

“You have to know, Derek, that if it’s meant to work out, it’s gonna work out.  So tell him who you are if you want to and see what happens after that, but he’s a good kid.”  Isaac grabs his bag again and grins at Derek on his way out the door.  “And you’re a good guy.  So just don’t—panic.  Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Also, use condoms.”

Derek rolls his eyes as the door closes behind him.

 

* * *

 

 

Okay, so maybe it wasn’t a total coincidence that, when Stiles used to call Reach Out, he very often got a hold of Derek on his first try.  Because Derek might have figured out how to route the phone number from the opposite end straight to his line—maybe.  Potentially.  Because even though they’re not allowed to use the callers’ phone numbers, they find it important to be able to see them, especially if the caller requires police assistance.  So mostly Derek hadn’t thought it would be a big deal, making sure he got most of Stiles’ calls the first time.  When he was away, the calls would be switched to another phone after a few rings, and so he didn’t think he was doing a terrible thing.

Oh, also, he recognizes Stiles’ number.  Still.  So when his phone rings and he notices the telltale digits, he smacks himself on the forehead and forwards the call to another person’s phone, swearing under his breath.

He makes eye contact with the girl he’s transferred Stiles to and makes a cutting motion across his throat, mouths I’m not here, and she nods, offering to talk to Stiles herself to help him out.  Apparently he refuses, because a second later she’s hanging up.

As soon as he’s taken his sigh of release, it comes back in as a gasp as Erica spins him around and holds his down, one hand on his shoulder, the other pointed in his face.  “You’re a coward, Hale.  This kid—this kid is calling you for help because he feels comfortable with you and only you and if you’re turning him away, you have a serious problem.”

“I’m trying not to put him in an awkward position!” Derek defends.

“Maybe you could actually talk to him to find out if he’s gonna feel awkward!”  Erica stands up straight and crosses her arms.  “He cares about you as Derek.  He’s attracted to you as Professor Hale.  If you just—talk to him.  Figure it out.  But don’t make assumptions and don’t make his decisions for him.  Promise me, right now, that you’re gonna talk to him after your lecture tomorrow.  Promise me.”

Derek nods.  “I promise.”

“Good.”  She smacks his shoulder.  “You’re smarter than this, Derek.”

He sighs.  “Maybe not.”

 

* * *

 

 

Stiles is still typing when Professor Hale drops his binder on the front desk and calls, “Class dismissed.”  He rattles off other information about when their project is due and how he has office hours, but Stiles is too busy finishing his thought to really pay attention, and when he starts to pack up, Professor Hale says, “Mr. Stilinski, can I see you for a second?”

Stiles looks up, nods, and continues packing up his bag, only stepping down to approach the desk a moment later.  “What’s up?” he asks, and he can honestly say that he’s never seen Professor Hale look so ridiculously nervous.  And something like panic strikes him—did Isaac tell him how he kind of has a crush?  Is he going to request that Stiles drop the class?  Oh, God.

“I—I wanted to talk to you about—something.”  Professor Hale looks up at him, and smiles softly.  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you nervous.  I…  There’s something that’s come to my attention recently that you deserve to know in case of any, uh, awkwardness that you may feel—”

“Isaac told you,” he breathes out in a horrified exhale.  “I’m so sorry, Professor Hale, you have no idea—it’s just a dumb crush, he’s absolutely blowing it out of proportion.  In no way does it affect my desire to stay in your class or continue learning from you—I wasn’t going to say anything, ever, and Isaac’s just—I’m so sorry.”

Stiles figures out in a split second, when the other man’s face drops into one of confusion, that he was definitely not referring to Stiles’ crush.  He probably hadn’t even known about it.  So Stiles’ face burns up and his ears go red and he clears his throat as he steps away from the desk.

“You weren’t talking about that, I’m assuming.”

“No,” Professor Hale says.  “I was actually talking about the fact that I recognize your voice from Reach Out.”

Stiles’ brow furrows.  “I’m sorry, what?”

“The hotline.  I—I thought you should know because, as my student, it puts you in an awkward position to know that I’m—I’m Derek.”

Stiles' voice sounds raw when he shakes his head and whispers, "No, you're not."

"I only just put two and two together and I understand the complication of dual relationships; it took a lot to convince me to let Isaac into this class and—”

"No, you're not," Stiles says, a bit louder this time.  “You can't be."

Professor Hale looks down at his shoes, hands stuffed in his pockets.  “I would understand if you wanted to drop the class.  You—you’re a great student but I understand where there may be emotional complications—”

“I can’t believe this,” Stiles breathes.  “I can’t—this isn’t happening.  This cannot be happening right now.”

“Stiles, I—”

“How long have you known?” he asks.  He feels like he’s folding in on himself, shocked and terrified and—and Derek is his teacher.  Derek, the guy he’s been half in love with since the first time he heard his goddamn voice, is his freaking _teacher_.

Derek closes his eyes for a moment.  "Not long. I didn't want you to waste your time if you didn't want to take the course any—”

"Is that all you care about? Of course it is, you're a teacher, you're my teacher. What's your community work to your professorship?" he asks, his breathing harsher.  “What's a pathetic kid whining about his life compared to a student huh?"

"Stiles, you were never pathetic, you only had questions like anyone would—”

"Just save me the pity.  I—I'll get back to you about the course just, please, don't feel sorry for me."  He hitches his bag up and shoulders past him.

“Wait, Stiles, I—”

“Goodbye, Professor Hale,” he says with an air of finality, and then he’s out the door, pushing it closed behind him.

 

* * *

 

 

Stiles is sitting on the couch with a bottle of whiskey in his hand and Supernatural playing on the television when Gavin walks in.  He doesn’t even look over, just takes another pull and closes his eyes, listening to the sound of the Winchesters run away from a ghost.

“You’re very drunk right now, aren’t you?” Gavin asks.  “Because I know you like to watch this shit when you’re drunk—it’s very weird.”

"It's weird when I'm not drunk too," Stiles slurs.

"Gimme," Gavin says, making a grab for the bottle.  “Give it."

"No," Stiles grumbles.  “My anonymous crush is my professor and he was looking at me like a three legged mutt when he told me that he understood if I preferred to drop the class. Which is, of course, code for: I'd prefer you dropped the class."

Gavin blinks at him and grabs two glasses from the kitchen cupboard.  "Well don't drink alone."

Stiles raises the bottle.  “Thank you for your solidarity, my brother.”

“Don’t talk like that.  C’mon.”  He sits down next to Stiles on the couch and pours the whiskey.  “So you’re telling me that the guy from the hotline is your professor.”

Stiles nods, his head bobbing for a little bit too long.  “Yes.  Yes, that is correct.”

“And now he’s awkward.”

“Extremely awkward.  Never wants to see me again.”

Gavin throws back the drink.  “Are you sure you’re not just reading into it too much?  Because you do that sometimes.”

"No, man, you didn't—you didn't see his eyes. Looking at me like I was something—tiny and roach-like and annoying."

"You are sooooo reading too much into it, man."

"I'm so not."

 

* * *

 

 

"Derek, this isn't constructive," Boyd sighs.

"Go fuck yourself," Derek mumbles, curling further into his sofa.

"See? I told you. He's completely regressed."

"Shut up with your two-bit freshman psychology, Isaac," Derek growls.  He rolls onto his back, staring up at the ceiling.  “I fucked up.  I really super fucked up.  He’ll never trust me.  Ever.”  He grabs the throw pillow underneath him and brings it over his face.

Isaac sighs heavily, raking a hand through his hair.  “Derek.  He overreacted, okay?  He does that—he worries about what people think of him and he overreacts.  He made an assumption.  Jesus, you two really are meant to be.  You both behave like children.”

Derek screams into his pillow and thanks God that it's Friday.

He spends all of Saturday night at the office, jumping out of his chair every time the phone rings, waiting for Stiles' number to flash through.  It never does.  He doesn’t know whether to be grateful for that or not, but all he knows is that he can’t stop thinking about the way Stiles looked at him.

He’d been so horrified, scared of Derek, and Derek doesn’t—Derek doesn’t want him to drop the course.  He doesn’t.  He wants to keep Stiles as a student.  He obviously enjoys the material, obviously knows what he’s doing, but maybe it’s too late.

On Monday, Stiles isn’t in class.  He hasn’t missed a day since school started and they’re preparing for their midterm—it’s horribly irresponsible.   And still Derek understands.  His name is still on the roster, he hasn’t dropped it, but he isn’t there either.

After class Isaac comes up and sits on his desk.  "Christie told me that Stiles told her to tell me to tell you that he still hasn't made up his mind and that he'll be getting notes from Greenberg."

"He'll get awful notes from Greenberg,” Derek grumbles.

“So, okay, the whole big problem here is that everyone knows how he feels—shocked, probably more than a little bit hurt, confused, and definitely still crushing on you big time, especially since his physical attraction to Professor Hale coincidentally coincides with his emotional attraction to Derek from Reach Out.”

Derek glares.  “I told you never to say ‘coincidentally coincides’ in front of me.  It’s redundant.”

“Shut up—the point, my grumpy papa bear, is that his feelings are obvious.  Yours, on the other hand, are not.  And that’s what fucking everybody up.”

"He's my student—”

"Oh, Christ."

"Isaac!"

"What!"

"This is so inappropriate."

"And you _so_ want to kiss him."

"Go away."

Isaac shakes his head.  “I won’t.  Because, okay, fine, if you’re uncomfortable dating him while he’s still your student, no one is going to force you to, but the least you owe him is an explanation.  You owe him an actual conversation in which you share your feelings.  I’m not wrong about this, Derek.”

“What am I supposed to do, Isaac?” Derek asks him, getting increasingly upset with every second of the conversation.  “I don’t know his phone number, I don’t know where he lives—all I can do is wait for him to come to me and tell me his decision.  That’s all I can do and, frankly, I’m pretty sure that’s all he wants me to do.”

Isaac raises an eyebrow. "You don't know his phone number? Give me a break."

Derek points at him.  “I won’t abuse the program like that, Isaac.  I refuse.”

“Okay, well, I know where he lives—I’ll drive you—”

“Isaac.”  He reaches towards Isaac, putting his hands on his shoulders.  “You have to just trust me on this, okay?  The best thing—the only thing I can do right now is wait.”

Isaac groans and grabs his stuff, leaving Derek and his moral high ground to suffer for the rest of the day.

None of it stops Isaac from going to Stiles' place himself after classes though, ready to hitch him over his shoulder and take him home to Derek.  The only problem, Isaac finds, is that Stiles is sitting at his desk, watching something on his computer, with a glass of something brown sitting next to him.

“Gavin let me in,” Isaac explains as he sits down on the foot of Stiles’ bed.  “Do you wanna talk about it?”

“Oh, about my whole world crashing down on top of me?” Stiles croaks.  “Nah, I’m good.”

“Maybe you should not be drinking.”

"Say it with conviction, Isaac, _I should not be drinking_ ," he says loudly before taking a gulp of his drink.

"I think you and Derek should speak."

"Oh, we've spoken."

"Honestly."

"I don't lie when I call for help."

"I meant him."  He folds his hands together.  “Honestly, Stiles—just give him a chance.  To talk to you.  Anything I tell you won’t mean jack, but he—he honestly cares about you and he deserves the chance to get to tell you that to your face.”

Stiles laughs harshly once, loud and rough.  “He cares.  Of course he cares, that’s what he does.  He _cares_.”  He says it with a sense of disdain.  “But it’s not the same thing.  It’s not—we don’t—he doesn’t get to be the same person.  He doesn’t get to be Derek because Derek doesn’t get to be real.  Derek doesn’t get to be a thing, an actual person, because if he’s an actual person than that means that I have to actually face my feelings—and that’s a not a thing that I do very often.”

"Well he is real, he's a real person with very real feelings and you can't just ignore those because you're scared."

Stiles smirks.  “You’ve never run away from something before?”

“Of course I have—which is why I’m going to help you out here and make sure you don’t.”  He holds out his hand.  “C’mon, this is happening.  Let’s go.”  He drags Stiles out of his chair, ruffling his hair and straightening his shirt.  “Oh, you need pants.”

Stiles sighs.  “Are we really doing this?  I’m gonna go see him right now?”

“I’m assuming you have a few things you’d like to say to him.”

All at once, Isaac can see how Stiles stands up straighter, shoulders flattening, eyes narrowing.  He nods.  “Yeah.  Yeah, I do.”

"Oh, maybe you're too drunk for this."

"No, nope. I'm fine. So great. Totally ready."

Isaac sighs.  "We'll open the windows on the way there. Come on."

 

* * *

 

 

Derek is on the couch with a stack with papers and a mug of coffee when he hears a key in the door.  He doesn’t even look over to the sliding door of the loft, simply raises his mug and says, “Welcome home—grab a pen.  You have to help me sort through these papers.”

“Yeah, maybe later,” Isaac responds.

“What do you mean later, I—”  He breaks off as he looks up, heart lurching into his throat.  Because Stiles is standing there.  He’s in a hoodie and baggy jeans and he looks…  He looks slightly drunk.  And it’s just as concerning as it is adorable.  Derek stands, putting down his folders, and crosses his arms over his chest.  “Isaac.”

“And that’s my cue.”  Isaac pats Stiles on the back.  “I’m just gonna go sit in my car—come down when you want me to drive you home.”  And with that he’s gone, ducking out, and Derek swears this time he’s going to kill him.

Stiles looks extremely uncomfortable.

Stiles' eyes flicker to the coffee table and zero in, with as much focus as his drunken eyes provide, on Derek's cell phone. He walks forward with purpose and takes the phone, dialing slowly and precisely before handing the phone to Derek, not meeting his eyes. Derek takes the phone just as something start's buzzing on Stiles' pocket. He takes out his own phone and licks his lips before sitting on the floor, back to the side of the couch, completely hidden from Derek's view.

Derek listens to Stiles' breathing, just beside him and also through the phone. He clears his throat. "How can I help?"

Stiles laughs, a sudden tear of noise from his throat and he sounds…joyful.  Just for a moment.  And then that kind of fades.  “Last year,” he says, “I decided, as a joke, to call a hotline number because I thought it would be dumb.  And it turned out that, when I actually started using it, my life got a lot easier.”

Derek closes his eyes.  “Sounds helpful.”

“Yeah, it was—but then it actually kind of started to tear me apart inside because, see, I started crushing on the guy I was talking to.”  Stiles pauses, and Derek can hear him sigh.  “I didn’t know anything about him and all he knew about me were my problems.  He didn’t even know my name.  And so I convinced myself that I wasn’t in love with him and that it wasn’t a big deal and I would never get the chance to meet him because, as far as I was concerned, he was barely even a real person.”

“Complicated,” Derek says.  “Yeah, that sounds really complicated.”

“Oh, hold on, it gets worse.  I don’t talk to the guy for months, right?  It’s summer, I’m going home to be with my family, and so even though I still think about him sometimes, there isn’t anything inside of me that really loves him anymore.  The connection was severed.  And so I started to fall for my Sociology of Sexuality professor.  And before you say anything, you have to know, he’s gorgeous.  Like drop dead gorgeous, the kind of guy you just can’t help but be attracted to, like you’re just powerless against the magnetism.”

Derek cracks a smile.  “I understand.”

“And he’s smart, too, right?  Ridiculously intelligent.  Kind, funny, obviously cares about his students, and so the more I listened to him talk and the more I learned, the more I started having a crush on _him_.  But I still—I mean, there was something still in me that wanted to talk to the hotline guy.  So I tried to call him.  He was never there.  I figured, well, that’s really over.  Might as well move on.  But no matter how attracted I became to my professor, it never mattered because I was too much hung up on where the guy from the hotline had disappeared to.”  Stiles sucks in a breath.  “No matter what I told myself I felt, I loved him.  Now, here comes the punch line, like a really bad _Lifetime_ movie—they’re the same guy.”

“No,” Derek says slowly, shaking his head.  “You’re kidding.”

“Not even a little bit.”

“Sounds like a real…pickle.”

Stiles snorts.  “You did not just say that.”

“I did, I’m sorry.”  He leans forward, pressing his forehead against his knee.  “The guy from the hotline liked you too.  Almost immediately.  And the professor.  The professor was impressed by you and enthralled and I—he liked you.  That’s what made it so difficult to imagine you leaving his class.  Leaving his life.”

“He told me that he wanted me to leave.”

“He said no such thing.”

“Derek—”

“Oh, fuck it.”  Derek hangs up his phone and darts around the couch, ending up on his knees in front of Stiles.  “Do you love me?”

Stiles blinks.  His eyes are watery.  “I—”

“Just tell me, Stiles.  Do you love me?”

There’s only a second of pause before Stiles nods.  “Yes,” he says, and that’s all Derek needs to swoop in and kiss him, hands holding onto his neck and the back of his head and body leaning in, soaking up his warmth.

It’s a good kiss.  It’s a great kiss.  It’s a dig-down-deep-inside-and-feel-it-in-your-bones kiss.  And when Derek pulls back, he leans his forehead against Stiles’.  “Fuck,” he says slowly.

“Sorry, I’ve been drinking, it’s—weird.”

Derek exhales through his nose.  “I’m your teacher, Stiles.”

Stiles nods quickly.  "That too."

"I don't want you to drop the course; that isn't fair to you."

"I don't wanna drop it."

Derek nods.  "I—don't know what to do then."

Stiles tips his head back against the couch and sits there for a second before forcing his way into a vertical position.  Derek follows suit.  “I’ll tell you what we’re going to do,” Stiles says.  “We’re going to do…nothing.  Our midterm is next week, after that it’s only like another two months.  We can wait for two months.”

“Two and a half.”

Stiles smirks.  “Derek.  I can wait.”

Derek nods and fixes the collar of Stiles' shirt.  "It can wait."

 

* * *

 

 

FIVE MONTHS LATER

 

There have been many parts of their relationship which could be objectively classified as creepy. The anonymity of their first meeting, the dual relationship during that brief period in which Derek was his teacher, and the ever-present difference in age. There's also the fact that one of Stiles' favorite hobbies is staring at Derek. Staring at him while he works out, watching him cook and teach and read. He likes staring at him here, especially, with the way the moonlight blasts through the wide rust stained windows and lights up the dark sheets bunched up around Derek's ankles and illuminates the papers he's still trying to get through and bounces off the shiny rims of his glasses as they slide down his nose.

Stiles is standing in the doorway of the bedroom, heart lodged in his throat, simply watching while Derek remains in his own little world, reading and whispering to himself.  Derek hasn’t moved since Isaac left, trying to work through the last bit of grades before school starts up again for the second semester, and Stiles feels something warm and fond manifesting in him.  Also—Derek looks ridiculously attractive in that moment, with the mussed hair and the glasses and the tight boxer briefs.  There is nothing Stiles wants more than for him to stop working.

He climbs almost catlike from the foot of the bed up to where the stack of papers sits on Derek's lap. Derek is willfully ignoring him now, a little smile playing on his lips as Stiles moves the papers off to the side table and continues to scoot up.

Derek looks at him over the top of his glasses.  “I was reading that.”

“I’m sure you’ll get over it,” Stiles tells him, straddling him with his hands on Derek’s shoulders.  “Hi,” he says, leaning in for a slow kiss.  “You look…really good.”

Derek smirks.  “Oh?”

“I think it’s the big, obnoxious glass windows you have in here—the moonlight makes you really hot.”  He brushes his fingertips over the frame of his glasses.  “And your glasses are terribly sexy.  And the way you concentrate, looking all responsible and shit.  Screw that.”

Derek's chest shakes a little with laughter.  "Screw it?"

"Yeah," Stiles says, his voice hushed, "and screw you too."

Derek reaches up to cup his hand over Stiles' cheek and kisses him, too softly, too gently for Stiles' liking.

“Oh, c’mon,” Stiles laughs.  “Kiss me like you mean it.”

He isn’t sure what he’s expecting, but when Derek flips him over and presses him against the mattress, he definitely isn’t complaining.  Especially not when Derek tugs on his hair, tips his head back, and kisses from the hollow of his throat up to his lips, little by little.

“Better?” Derek asks.

Stiles is breathless.  “Can I fuck you?  Please?”

"Patience," Derek mumbles against his throat.

Stiles breathes a little shallower with the way Derek continues to pepper his skin with kisses, slow and torturous.  Derek is just breathing against his skin with every press of his lips, moving his mouth from Stiles’ earlobe to his collarbone and down to his bellybutton as he pushes up his T-shirt.

“I don’t have patience,” Stiles groans as he grabs at Derek’s shoulders.

Derek smirks.  “Sucks for you.”

The clothes kind of disappear in what Stiles can only describe as a super slow-motion striptease.  Derek is still on top of him, knees on other side of Stiles’ hips, and when he takes off his shirt, Stiles swears he sees God.  It’s kind of a problem.

“You’re a teacher,” Stiles hisses.  “You’re not allowed to look like this.”

"And yet," Derek says through an evil grin, "look at me."

"Oh, I am," Stiles breathes out.  “Trust me."

Derek's stopped grinning though and has taken on a look of peaceful adoration as he runs his fingertips over Stiles' chest.

Stiles catches his hands.  “Hey.  What—what’s up?”

“Nothing,” Derek says as he shakes his head.  He leans down for a kiss, sucking on Stiles’ bottom lip for a moment.  “I’m just glad you’re here, you know?”

“Yeah.”  Stiles settles his hands on Derek’s hips.  “I know.”

It’s not so slow after that.  It’s not a race exactly, but at least they manage to get their pants off fairly quickly, their mouths trying desperately to stay connected as Derek’s underwear disappears and Stiles’ sweats end up by the bedroom door—which they haven’t closed.

“Don’t you dare,” Stiles says, yanking Derek back down.  “Isaac’s gone and he’s not coming back tonight.  Forget it.”

Derek’s response is to slither down Stiles’ body and suck him into his mouth.

Stiles gasps, his eyes fluttering closed.  “Derek—Derek, don’t make me come.  You have to—I have to fuck you, c’mon.”

Derek's up and by his side in a moment, whispering teasingly in his ear.  "Why? Why do you have to; why do you need to? Tell me, Stiles."

“Fuck, that’s really hot.”  Stiles licks his lips.  “You’re ridiculously hot—that’s one of the reasons I definitely have to fuck you.  Your ass is phenomenal.  And the pretty noises you make”—he grabs at Derek’s head, pulling him back in for a kiss before he can escape—“when you’re hard and aching and I’m brushing right up against your prostate with my fingers—I want to be inside you.  Please, fucking please, let me fuck you.”

Derek gropes at him for another breathless moment before rolling on to his back, licking his lips and running his fingers through his own hair. "You don't have to beg."

"Oh, don't I," Stiles mutters, climbing onto Derek's lap.  “You seemed to be playing hard to get."

Derek shakes his head and runs his hands over Stiles' thighs.  "I just like to hear it, that you want me."

“Of course I want you.”  He looms over Derek, eyes shining.  “Not only are you ridiculously sexy, but I’m hopelessly in love with you, so that basically means I want you all the time.”

“Glad to hear it’s not just me.”

Stiles loves the way Derek’s hands feel on his shoulders.  He can read every little thing about what Derek is feeling just from how his hands twitch and clench and how his nails scrape against muscle—it’s wonderful, but it’s nothing compared to the sounds.  Stiles wasn’t kidding.  The sounds Derek makes when Stiles fingers him are so terrifying hot, Stiles constantly feels like he’s in a high-budget porno.  The classy kind.

Derek lets out a soft breathy laugh.  "Black and white?"

Stiles pauses with his fingers inside Derek."Huh?"

"You were—ohfuck—you were saying that aloud."

Stiles buries his face in Derek’s neck.  “I can’t believe you actually have the presence of mind right now to choose ‘aloud’ over ‘out loud’.  You are ridiculous.”

“I’m a professor.”

Stiles feels like a light blub has appeared over his head.  “Fuck, why in the hell have I never called you Dr. Hale in bed?  That is so attractive—I am an idiot.”

“Stiles.”  Derek reaches up a hand to hook around his neck.  “Focus.”

Stiles bites his lip hard enough to draw blood as he adjusts the condom that Derek had rolled on him moments earlier and aligns himself before he pushes in slowly.

"I’m trying, Dr. Hale," he says tied in with a moan.  “Trying to—fuck, you're tight."

Derek laughs and it does awesome, awesome things to Stiles’ body.  “Stiles,” he breathes, “fuck me,” and then he starts sucking a hickey to life on the side of Stiles’ neck, but Stiles is too blissed out to really notice or, for that matter, care.

Derek is tight and hot and everything wonderful and his hands are touching Stiles everywhere.  Stiles can barely focus, blinking down at him with wide eyes when his head falls back against the pillow.

“Oh, God,” Derek moans, mouth open.  “Stiles.”  He looks so beautiful like that, Stiles has to kiss him, and as he moves inside of Derek, it’s like everything just clicks together.  Somehow, Derek’s hands end up underneath his, pinned to the mattress, and his neck is arched, practically begging for Stiles to attach his mouth to it.  He’s only so strong.

“I’m so freaking in love with you,” Derek gasps, squeezing Stiles’ hands.  “Stiles—Stiles, look at me, please.”

“You’re gonna kill me—Derek—”

Derek barely manages to muffle a moan.  “C’mon, Stiles, look at me.”

It’s horribly romantic.  It’s so cheesy that it’s almost disgusting, but they lock eyes and Stiles presses Derek down more firmly, his hips arching just that little bit harder.  And Derek looks like he’s going to fucking fall apart.  His breathing and his heavy eyelashes, his cock trapped between their stomachs, Stiles is simultaneously impressed and worried that Derek hasn’t already wormed a hand free to touch himself.

He trails his own hand down Derek's chest and moves his fingers further down before Derek stops him. He blinks at Derek but the man just kisses him and moves Stiles' hand over his chest.  "Wanna come from just you."

“Fuck,” Stiles groans.  He grabs onto Derek’s knees, pulling them tighter around his hips, and Derek nods, knocking his heel into Stiles’ ass like he’s a horse.

“C’mon,” Derek grunts.  “Fuck me—fuck me, Stiles.”

“I think you just like hearing yourself say those words,” Stiles accuses, thrusts speeding up gradually and mind turning to jelly.

“So what if I do?”  He grabs onto Stiles’ shoulders and eases him closer, close enough to kiss.

They’re both panting moments later, unable to speak, and Stiles grinds deep inside of him, nearly coming just from the sound of Derek’s breathy moan in response.

Stiles feels his legs shaking almost violently, his arms barely keeping him up and he's so close. He leans into Derek and breathes just over his ear, "I love it here, Dr. Hale. Just right here. I love it when I can feel you from the inside, Derek."

“Fucking hell,” Derek gasps, and then he’s coming, fingers digging into Stiles’ back, hips still undulating as he tries to get more of Stiles inside him, and then Stiles is groaning and coming inside him, shooting into the condom and trying not to collapse on top of him as he shakes.

When he regains awareness, he’s on his back, Derek straddling him, wiping off his chest with a wet washcloth.

“You made me come really hard,” Derek tells him with a smirk, “so I figured I might as well clean up the mess I made.”

Stiles laughs, shoving at his shoulder.  “Fuck you.”

“Any time you’d like.”

 

* * *

 

 

Derek looks over his class roster and then glances over glasses at the students shifting in their seats.  He ignores them as he moves back over to his desk to jot something down and then flips the paper as he continues to scan for absent students.

Finally, after a few more minutes, the shifting is too difficult to ignore and frankly, very annoying.

“Mr. Hughes,” Derek says with a sigh as he turns towards the student, “would you like to share the reason for your nervousness with the rest of the class?”

The kid looks over his shoulder briefly.  "Well I don't want to alarm you but there's a couple of dudes squabbling over a basket outside and it just got everyone jumpy about a social experiment in the sex class, you know?"

Derek frowns.  “Social experiment?”

“Yeah, you know, like Isen’s experiment, Cookies and Kindness?”  Derek’s familiar, and he nods.  “Some of us were just talking about it—I mean, you don’t know anything about it, do you?”

“I’m afraid not,” he sighs, rubbing at his temple.  “Well, let’s try not to let it distract us for now, yes?”

Derek has only begun his midterm review and already he sees the student's eyes glaze over in panic. The lectures are paced in such a way that they usually don't realize just how much content is covered…until midterms.

"Come on, people, if you've attended class—”

"It doesn't make it any less overwhelming."

He turns to see Stiles grinning, standing beside Isaac in the doorway, each of them holding a giant basket.

"It's also the most torturously scheduled lecture in this place," Isaac adds.  "1:30? It's lunch time."

Derek only barely keeps himself from sighing.  “Don’t you two have class?” he says quietly.  It’s a small room.  Nothing is private.

“Not yet,” Stiles sing-songs.  He lifts his basket.  “Midterms can be terrifying, but they’re only slightly worse than the teacher actually _talking_ about midterms.  We come bearing care packages.”

Murmurs erupt throughout the class, all of them sitting up straighter in their chairs, hands loosening on their pens or halting completely on their computers.

"I hate you," he says out loud, professionalism absolutely absent.

Stiles grins from the back of the room, giving a girl who's openly shared about her polyamorous practices several packages.

When Stiles reaches the front of the classroom, he steps close to Derek and holds out one of the bags.  It’s clear and Derek can see through it bits of candy, a wrapped cookie, condoms, unsharpened pencils, and a small packet of lubricant.

“Stress relief,” Stiles whispers.

“Did we run out at home?” Derek responds, an eyebrow arched.

“Hm, I have a feeling we will, Dr. Hale.”

Derek snatches the baggie and jerks his head.  "Get out of my class."

Stiles throws a wink at him as he and Isaac leave and Derek absolutely does not stare at his ass as he walks away—except for the fact that he does.  When the door is closed behind him, he stands from where he’s been leaning against his desk and claps his hands together.  But before he can get a word in edgewise the room explodes with questions about “Who were those guys?” and “Can I get his number?”

Derek sighs, running a hand through his hair.

“That’s so awesome, Dr. H,” one of the students says.  “Are they TAs?”

“No, they’re students—obnoxious students.”  He smirks and picks up a stack of papers.  “And I would remind you all that this isn’t mean to serve as a distraction, simply stress relief.  Midterms are hardly the scariest things you deal with in your college career.”

“I’d like to deal with the brunet,” a girl towards the middle says, grinning.  “He had nice hands.”

Derek lets a certain choice memory of Stiles and his big hands linger in his head for a moment.  He turns back to his slides but spares the girl a side glance. "Sorry to disappoint you,” he says through a smirk, “but he’s taken.”  He gestures back towards the board.  “Now, about the test that will determine a large portion of your grade—or would you like to continue gossiping?

The room is silent.

Derek grins and can’t help but slide his eyes towards the baggie still on his desk.  He rolls his eyes.  “That’s what I thought.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, hope you enjoyed!


End file.
